The Tempest
by Jane Doe
Summary: I sit here unable to stop the storm raging inside me as The Tempest forges war against my soul." {GS}
1. Prologue

**'The Tempest** '

_By Jane Doe_

**Disclaimer:** I do not own CSI at all. Though inspired by the show, I hold no claim to it whatsoever. I simply borrow these characters for personal enjoyment and nothing more.

**Summary:** "I sit here unable to stop the storm raging inside me as The Tempest forges war against my soul."

**Notes:** First I must thank my beta, Jo, who has taught me the proper use of dialogue. That's unmistakably something I truly appreciate. : D Next I want to thank Jorgy, my once second beta, for abandoning me to make a point (I see the point and I thank you).

**Feedback:** If you please, I would love to know what you think as you read this. The good and the bad are accepted as always.

**Prologue**  
_Grissom_

The music starts low. The volume dial stops under my fingertips and sound, precious sound, drifts into the room. Every pore opens and every nerve twitches to life. Their melodious voices float through me barely audible at first then they began to rise. My eyes involuntarily drift shut surrounding me in darkness, but in this darkness I am not alone. The beautiful music wraps gently around me, consoling me. No other piece of music can accentuate the ears, clear the mind, and no other can make one appreciate sound more beautifully.  
  
A loud baritone disrupts the choir's unity and my temporary sanctuary. The sudden cacophony added by the voice makes me confused and angry simultaneously. The entire flow is disturbed by one solitary voice. Every time I listen to this piece, I wonder what she was thinking when she wrote this work. Why add such a disruption to something already wonderfully beautiful? However, I am quickly soothed by the power of the booming voice wishing to tell the tale. I welcome this new voice and fall into the music once again. The others join in a loud unison so great, that the sound expectantly grows to finally shatter everything inside me. The first musical peak is reached and held there, and me with it. The violins counter with a soft sound beneath the musical climax. I am suspended here full of such pain and sorrow, but also joy and calm.  
  
As easily as I was thrown upward, I am gradually brought back down. A great audible breath is drawn into their powerful lungs and the strings pause. This is unlike the first interruption –it doesn't take your mind away from the goal of the piece. The intake of air shows the natural humanness of their voices. It makes them real to me. I don't know how, but it could be the most perfect musical compliment I have ever heard.  
  
Then a new refreshing, unrelenting wave bursts through any exterior you may possess. For these rare minutes I experience rage, peace, joy, sorrow, life, death, judgment, acceptance, enlightenment, and confusion in the same unison as their voices. Sometimes I am certain I hear the emotions become one, and perhaps this is the dangerous edge the composer was tottering as she wrote.  
  
I feel myself smiling. I am able to smile because I can hear. No longer is the threat upon my door that I will be without sound. These heavenly voices that tear me down so that my very core is exposed and unprotected are building me up as well. The weight has been lifted and I can walk away a better man. This is my time to triumph.  
  
The music rages on to catapult me through the last dramatic exit. Then slowly the sound softly ebbs away and silence follows in its wake. The track playing stops with an audible click and the machine prepares to switch to the next disc. My eyes open and I slowly push the power button filling the room in a complete welcomed silence.  
  
I find my way to the sofa in the darkness and flop down heavily. Without a warning a loud crash of thunder and lightening expels the silence from the room once again. Soon the patter of rain beating against my patio door begins a new symphony of sound to comfort me. A sigh escapes me, but a smile lingers to lightly tug at the corners of my mouth.  
  
** :::::::::::::::::::::::::**

_ Sara_  
  
I squint upward towards the sky watching the fresh rainfall. I really don't mind the rain. In fact, the sudden downpours comfort me in their own way, and right now the weather quenches the burning thirst inside me.  
  
You see, summer in Nevada is hot and almost unbearable. Temperatures reach record highs and the city seems more like a mirage looming up than a reality. There is no relief but the artificial one created indoors until the rain comes. So when the warm front clashes violently with the cold front and the heavy black clouds cannot hold anymore moisture, a great release dumps onto the city and with it a temporary relief.  
  
Sighing loudly, I lean against the brick wall for reassured strength. I planned to take a walk but the rain seems content to trap me here. It is better than going back inside.  
  
The night sky shouts to life with light and a low distant rumble breaks me from such thoughts. I glance again at the rain riddled night sky as it calms again. The only sound is of the rain slamming on the pavement and the loud relentless pounding as it assaults the eaves protecting me.  
  
Involuntarily, I scan the dim parking lot for his Tahoe. I know it's not there because it hasn't been there for four days and nights. I think I check the lot out of routine though. I miss him, even if we weren't on such great terms when he suddenly took some days off. Initially, I was upset he just chose to leave without more notice. One day he just wasn't here. I almost called him to ask if he was okay. I mean Gil Grissom doesn't take consecutive days, without a few weeks notice. It just wasn't like him. In the end, I just accepted his behavior like I always do and let him have his time alone.  
  
After all, I accepted the little shoves which grew until the gap was so widely spaced that we lost sight of each other. I accepted the attitude he had towards fixing our deteriorating friendship. I didn't agree to it easily though so I tried to reach out, but he turned me down quite coldly with a solid 'no'.  
  
I feel water cascade down my cheek then drop to my collarbone. I blink in confusion and brush it away in embarrassment. I should get back inside, I have things I could be doing for the case. I want to talk to Catherine about cutting into my overtime again to finish my case before shift starts, so I'll have to find her too. It wasn't a difficult case, but any kind of work keeps my mind off other things. Besides, usually she doesn't have a problem with it because we've been so busy. I should still let her know just to follow protocol.  
  
Opening the double paned glass doors, I am met by the soft light and cool air but not before the ominous rigid bolt of lightening cracks through the sky simultaneously joined by a loud rumble of thunder signaling the storm is now directly over Las Vegas.  
  
"Do you ever go home?" Catherine asks, approaching me just as I step onto the main corridor.  
  
I smile wanly. "Actually, I haven't been here that long."  
  
"How's your case?"  
  
"Done. I have prints, DNA, and fibers saying we have the right guy. He did it."  
  
"Can't beat that," she says with a giant smile. "I love it."  
  
"Me too," I agree. "I wanted to let you know I dipped into overtime to get this case finished."  
  
"I don't think it should be a problem. We are all a little over." She touches my arm as she passes me. "Go arrest your guy and I'll see you at assignments."  
  
I nod and she leaves me. I walk once again towards the layout room where crime photos are strewn across the table. If anything can be said about my overtime, it is clear that I've got plenty of evidence to arrest the one responsible. I tuck the file under my arm and head over to P.D. to make the arrest. With any luck, it will go smoothly and I'll have time to get some hot coffee.


	2. Chapter 1

**Chapter One  
**_Grissom_

* * *

The hum of the lab is greatly welcomed. People walk briskly from one station to another, others dwindle away time as the computers do their work, and investigators stand close by waiting for a break in the cases. I've missed this place more than you know. Although the outcome of otosclerosis surgery are generally a success, there was a chance I would have continued to lose my hearing, and this place that I love so much as well. Yet here I am, my secret safely behind me, and I'm ready to move forward again. I can start to enjoy working again.  
  
I scan the lab as I walk unnoticed down the corridor. My eyes immediately fall on Greg Sanders, who just commenced a fluid Moonwalk to the printer. I smile and walk in his direction.  
  
"Hi, Greg."  
  
He jumps. "Grissom, what are you doing here?"  
  
"This is my lab. I'm supposed to be here."  
  
"Not 'til Friday is what I heard," he says letting his eyes wander over me. He smiles brightly. "Love the beard."  
  
I touch my face with a frown.  
  
"So, are you coming to check up on me?"  
  
"It never hurts. What are you doing here so early?" I ask, remaining in character despite my mood. "The shift doesn't start for another hour."  
  
He sighs. "Well it's been a little busy here. Catherine is really riding me for samples I didn't even know I had. It was wearing me thin so I decided to come in early tonight to do some catching up."  
  
I nod but can't help but wonder why he does that to his hair.  
  
"So what did you do on your days off? Hawaii? Caribbean Cruise? Skiing in the Rockies? Lounging in..."  
  
"I stayed home," I say cutting him short. "Not that it is any of your business."  
  
"Right. You know if I had paid vacation time I'd take the whole two weeks off. I don't mess with halves."  
  
"That's why you're not supervisor."  
  
He smiles. "Give me time and I'll have your job under my thumb."  
  
I raise an eyebrow and begin to walk away. "I'll see you later."  
  
"Good to have you back, boss!"  
  
With an hour until the shift starts, I make my way towards my office to enjoy the familiar peace. It will be time to think and time to read some of the files Catherine has without a doubt left on my desk. But I don't even make it that far before the politics of being unit supervisor pounce on me.  
  
"Gil. Haven't seen you wandering the lab lately."  
  
I force a smile to form as Conrad Eckley walks up to me. "Too bad we couldn't keep it that way."  
  
He delivers a wicked grin. "Hey have you met the new sheriff? He has great ambitions for the lab."  
  
"Really? We are still second best, and last time I check we are competing quite nicely for the number one lab in the country this year."  
  
"That may be true, but some things have got to change before we get there. Our sheriff has the character to pull it off."  
  
"We'll see," I say dryly.  
  
"You'll certainly have things to talk about since your CSI's tend to get ahead of themselves an awful lot," he says cryptically. "Have you had a chance to look at the time sheet?"  
  
"No, I haven't," I say feeling my jaw tighten with disgust.  
  
"It seems your CSI's can't tell time." He hands me the paper logging hours put in for every CSI that he just happened to have with him.  
  
CSI Night Shift --Brown, Warrick: 54 hours. Sidle, Sara: 66 hours. Stokes, Nick: 55 hours. Willows, Catherine: 60 hours.  
  
I look up. "You know I took a few personal days. The numbers don't surprise me."  
  
"They surprised the sheriff," he shoots back. "He made a good point that overworked CSI's lead to recklessness, and recklessness can lead to mistakes, which lead to money and credibility losses for the entire lab."  
  
"If our new sheriff thinks that, I suggest he look at the stats for graveyard. I think our efficiency rate is still in the outstanding range and we hold more cases solved than other teams," I retort feeling myself grow angrier but also prouder.  
  
"Come on, Gil. Sixty-six hours? That doesn't seem excessive?" He asks bitterly.  
  
"No."  
  
"Isn't Sidle the one that almost got shot for busting into a suspect's apartment a couple months ago? That seems reckless to me."  
  
"It was the same day of the lab explosion. We were all shaken," I say through clenched teeth. "And where were you while my team cleaned up the mess and worked new cases pouring through the door?"  
  
He chuckles. "You're right. Your CSI's don't play cops and robbers, they just blow up labs."  
  
"I don't have time for this." I walk past him.  
  
"Sidle has plenty of time. She must be going for a record in overtime hours or trying to get you to notice her."  
  
I turn around instantly and walk straight up to his face. He crossed so many workplace lines, not to mention my own personal one that I can't help myself. Before I can say anything or show him how wrong he is, there is a tug at my elbow. It is Catherine.  
  
"How are you doing Eckley?" Catherine asks in a snide tone. "Still feel cozy between the cheeks of our new sheriff?"  
  
He snorts, looks at me, and walks away. I can't believe he would lash out at Sara or my team like that. Even for Eckley that was a little brazen. He must feel really comfortable with this new sheriff.  
  
"Back for not even a day and you've already assumed your roll of Politically Tone Deaf."  
  
I round on her. "Catherine, why is the entire team is putting in over fifty hours a week?"  
  
Her brow knits in confusion. "Do you think we were playing tag? We were working, Gil. I can't help it that so many people died in four days."  
  
"You could have asked for one of day shift's guys. Eckley has always got more people than us."  
  
"And risk being slowed down by an outsider? We wouldn't have gotten done half of the work."  
  
I run a hand through my hair in frustration. Things started so perfectly and now this.  
  
"The team is all here," she says softly.  
  
I look at my watch. "Shift doesn't start for almost an hour."  
  
"Fifty-two minutes to be exact and they haven't clocked in yet so don't worry."  
  
"Let's go."  
  
The lounge isn't too lively with activity, but to my surprise everyone is there. Nick is leaning back in his chair reading an ESPN magazine while Warrick stands next to the coffee pot talking to Sara. My stomach cartwheels when she unsuspectingly turns around to instantly lock with my eyes.  
  
She looks great, and for a split second I want to tell her.  
  
"Grissom!" Nick cries breaking our connection. "What are you doing here?!"  
  
I'm really no longer in the mood for the festivities. The run in with Eckley and the thought of a new sheriff is really taking its toll on me. "I got a little restless," I say unemotionally.  
  
"You grew a beard," he says shaking my hand and moving aside. "It looks good."  
  
"It's good to have you back, Gris," Warrick says stepping up to also shake my hand. "Catherine's a really bad boss."  
  
I try to smile, but it falters when Sara attentively steps up to me but not too close.  
  
"We didn't expect you for two more days."  
  
"A week was too long."  
  
She fakes a smile and falls into a seat. Soon they all follow her lead and I start. Looking at their faces, the faces I would come to miss along with the work, I really didn't want to get into the hours policy. But I couldn't just let it go now –not after the run in with Eckley, who probably plans to arrange a special meeting for me and the sheriff as soon as possible.  
  
"First thing's first, I was informed you're all over in hours. I know it's been hectic but starting tonight, I want you all out of here on time."  
  
"What?" Warrick shakes his head. "You've got to be kidding us? They are already attacking us? This is so much crap."  
  
I hold up a tired hand. "We need to be below the radar for a change, so everyone needs to be gone by time to leave."  
  
A series of miserable nods go around the table. I know how they feel.  
  
"Okay, there's a suicide jumper at the MGM, but it looks suspicious," I say reading from the slip of paper. "Warrick, you and Nick get down there as soon as possible. Catherine, you're with me, and Sara, I'm placing you in the lab."  
  
"What?"  
  
I look directly at her. "You've logged the most time at sixty-six hours. You are on standby and lab duty until further notice."  
  
"It's the middle of the month!" She exclaims standing up.  
  
My mouth drops open in surprise. She glares at me then shakes her head as if she expected this.  
  
"Fine. I'll be in the lab if anyone needs me."  
  
The rest file out behind her without looking at me. 

**:::::::::::::::::::::::::**

"Grissom?"  
  
I look up from the microscope to meet Catherine's figure walking towards me. "Did you get a result on those fibers?"  
  
"No, Hodges is working Trace." She straddles a stool nearest me. "Look, Grissom, I know you were doing what you had to do, and I'm behind you one hundred percent, but you really could have handled the start of shift better."  
  
"Catherine, I had to pull her off. She had the most hours," I say turning back to my sample. I don't need Catherine reminding me about Sara.  
  
"I know, but while you were gone I could really count on her to pick up the slack." She pauses.  
  
"Your little speech was a harsh even for you."  
  
"I didn't mean anything to be harsh."  
  
"I'm just saying, for a first day back you're picking fights with the last person you should."  
  
"Eckley was just trying to get under my skin. It is what he does best."  
  
"I meant Sara."  
  
I glance over at her but remain silent towards her trick of words.  
  
"Anyway, I intercepted this new case that has come in and thought you'd like a priority delivery." She drops the new slip of paper on the table and leaves without another word.  
  
I pick up the paper and rub it between my fingers in contemplation. I'm really starting off on the wrong foot if I keep doing this to her. Things have changed so much between us, I'm not sure we can pick up right where we left off. I've got to face her sooner or later though.  
  
So after spending five minutes asking where she was, I accidentally found her in the computer lab surrounded by only the soft glow of a nearby lamp.  
  
"Sara?"  
  
She looks up, startled but her expression never changes when she speaks my name. "Grissom." I can't say I didn't expect this kind of treatment. When I glance toward the screen I'm met with a jumble of words and formatting frames. "What are you doing?"  
  
"Archie created software that catalogs cases by names and numbers. I'm giving it a trial run."  
  
"It would save a lot of time and confusion," I say watching her mouse click various commands.  
  
"Yup. The only hassle is getting the files into the computer."  
  
I look at the stack of case files next to her computer. "You're going to type all that up?"  
  
"I would have plenty of time, but no I'm not." She spins around in her chair. "I scan the pictures and the forms into the computer, and then I use an office software program to create identical digital forms from the original worksheets. Most of it is copy and paste from there. The computer does most of the work."  
  
"It sounds daunting."  
  
"It is, but like I said, I've got plenty of time."  
  
I resist the urge to sigh. "Listen, Catherine told me how well you handled yourself while I was taking a few days off and I wanted to thank you."  
  
"I really didn't have much of a choice," she says studying the screen. "I did my share, but so did the others."  
  
"I appreciate it," I choke out, still insistent.  
  
Okay that didn't go as I hoped it would.  
  
"Is that all you wanted, because I want to get through as much of this as I can before I go home." She cuts through my train of thought like a razor.  
  
I drop the slip of paper in front of her. "A body was found in the alleyway between Julliard Boulevard and Jackson Street. It's yours if you want it."  
  
She looks at me without a spark of interest on her face or in her eyes. "What about flying under the radar?"  
  
"I guess we need to work around it, because you're all I got right now. Brass will meet you there."  
  
She seems skeptical at first. I begin to think she will choose to be stubborn rather than take the case assignment, but she quickly rises from her chair to leave without a word, much less a 'thank you'. 


	3. Chapter 2

**

* * *

**

Chapter Two  
_Sara_

* * *

The drive to the crime scene is hectic. Everyone in Las Vegas hits the streets by seven o'clock to get a great card table, or a slot machine that is rumored to be lucky by eight on the dot. The heavy traffic and the wet roads give me a blinding headache. By the time I reach the alleyway between Julliard and Jackson, I'm restless and frustrated which is a horrible place to be when you're working a new case.  
  
It's all Grissom's fault. He's gone for three weeks without a word, and then comes back annoyed that I maxed out on my overtime. We were swamped almost everyday, so what was I supposed to do? Of course, he didn't understand and he didn't want to understand. I hate it when he just dismisses me like that, and it has been happening for far too long. I thought I saw a familiar spark in his eyes and for one second I thought that perhaps we could have a second chance. But, no, nothing has changed. The proof lies in plain sight.  
  
Now, not only does he throw me into a case on a rainy night, he probably doesn't have any inkling of an idea why I'm upset and didn't accept his 'thank you'. Everything seems to have picked up right where it was left off.  
  
I release a heavy sigh of defeat as I park the SUV next to a squad car.  
  
"Whoa, Sara," Brass says holding up his arms as I approach. "I'm not sure I want you carrying a gun when you look like that."  
  
"Like what?" I snap.  
  
He smirks and gives me a paranoid look. "Like you're really pissed off."  
  
"What do we have?" I ask quickly but immediately take it back. "Sorry, Jim but the night hasn't been a good one."  
  
"No problem." He smiles and it seems to melt my angry exterior away. "Dead female found by the store owner when he was dumping some trash after the rainstorm. She's sitting on the other side of the dumpster, stabbed to death."  
  
I glance towards the owner being interviewed by an officer in black, before directing my attention towards the dumpster. The naked feet and shins come into view. "You said she was sitting up? Did you or the owner move her?"  
  
"I know better than that and there's no way that guy went anywhere near her when he saw all the blood."  
  
A beam of light emits from the end of my flashlight as I round the corner of the dumpster that's blocking my view. Oh, dear God. A young woman, maybe in her late twenties, is slumped against the wall for all to see. Her once blond hair is now red with caked blood. Her face is badly bruised: a broken nose, one eye swollen shut, a busted lip, and a bruise on her chin. Her yellow silk blouse is unbuttoned revealing the first stab wound, then another, and three more. He wasn't finished though, because four more blows were delivered to her abdomen to bring the total to nine. Her pants are completely gone, suggesting rape. The color of her exposed underwear is a sickening dark red and fully saturated by the shallow puddle of blood beneath her. Finishing with all the strength I can manage, I notice there are long whip-like marks across her legs. Some appear to be recent, but most are old in nature.  
  
"Sara, are you okay?"  
  
I turn around. "Huh?"  
  
He seems uncomfortable. "You look a little pale. Are you okay?"  
  
I cannot stop myself from frowning. What? I didn't think it was affecting me that much. I felt in control the entire time as I stated the facts in my head.  
  
"I'm fine," I say quickly with a forced smile.  
  
He nods slowly. "If you are sure?"  
  
"Yeah, I'm sure," I say still smiling. "I'm going to get to work, Jim."  
  
"It's just you tonight?"  
  
What? Great, now he thinks I'm being unprofessional and he'll hover over me all night. Not to mention when he finds out Grissom is back, I'll probably have to deal with Grissom's disappointment and regret that he gave me a case. I can handle this. They'll see.  
  
"Yeah."  
  
I bend down to my kit and put on my gloves. Brass has yet to leave. I want to sigh in annoyance but he may take it the wrong way. Instead, I begin to snap photos of the crime scene, all the while trying to remain aware of my thoughts and my mouth.  
  
"Did you find her pants anywhere nearby?" I ask snapping a picture of the whip marks.  
  
"No, but I can have someone start combing the dumpster and the alley."  
  
I nod absently. What is that? I get my forceps and carefully pull something that looks like glass from a cut on her face and examine it under my light. It doesn't look like glass anymore, it's too shiny. I bag, catalogue, and move on.  
  
Almost nothing is found, probably because of the rain and the precautions that the killer took. There was nothing under her nails so it seems she didn't have a chance to fight back. A few hairs were on the brick wall behind her, but I'm sure they are the victim's and were pulled out when he dropped her into a sitting position. Around her there are only the usual miscellaneous items that are typical in an alley. I have nothing to print. I'm assuming the dumpster has nothing to do with the crime. After all, why wouldn't the killer have placed her in the dumpster? I look inside, but decide not to bother with prints when I see nothing out of the ordinary.  
  
There is something about the way she is sitting that I just cannot get out of my mind. Her position outside of the dumpster suggests the killer wanted to have her found. It also seems he wanted to display her –not in a positive way because she is against the trash bin. He obviously doesn't think highly of women. It is definitely a crime of passion and I'm almost sure she was raped. She may have known him, or it could have been a stranger. It is hard to tell. Why is she sitting like that? I swear she looks more than sat down. She looks posed.  
  
"Hey, Brass? Does she look posed to you?" I ask, never taking my eyes off her. "Her palms are face down, see? The dead flop, they don't rest their hands like that. And look at her legs, the way they are spread a little too much."  
  
"So, it wasn't just a body dump?"  
  
"No, and for two reasons: he didn't use the dumpster to hide her, and he took the time to position her like that." I bite my lip. "He wanted to show us what he did."  
  
I suddenly want very badly for David to get here so this girl can have some peace. Just as my thought ends, the coroner's van rolls up to the yellow police line. Within minutes he comes sauntering down the alley with a gurney and a body bag.  
  
"Sara!" He waves at me. "I thought Grissom put you in the lab tonight."  
  
I feel my ears grow hot with anger and a new weight bears down on my shoulders.  
  
"Grissom is back?" Brass asks.  
  
"Yeah, he just got back tonight," David says cheerily coming to a halt beside me. "He looks nice and rested."  
  
"David, the body needs to be moved now," I say shortly.

**:****:::::::::::::::::::::::**

The victim's clothes were never found, so that means either he kept them as a trophy or the victim wasn't wearing them when she was attacked. David placed time of death roughly ten hours ago, but that doesn't really help until a timeline is established. So far this case isn't unfolding too rapidly.  
  
On a brighter side, if there can be one, I've been able to avoid Grissom. Maybe I sold Brass short, and he didn't tell Grissom about my subconscious words. It just irritates me to know that others think I can't be professional with cases pertaining to women that have been targeted. I can keep my distance, and this case is going to prove it.  
  
"Hey, Doc, you paged me," I say pushing through the morgue doors.  
  
"Yes. I finished your stab victim," he says pointing to a slab and pulling back the white sheet.  
  
"She was stabbed ten times."  
  
"Ten? I counted nine."  
  
He points to an area at the center of her chest. "I almost didn't see it either until I washed away all the blood. It is smaller than the others, as if he didn't push this one the whole way in."  
  
"The first wound? And he was hesitant?"  
  
He shrugs. "It seems so. Cause of death was a fatal blow to the heart of course, but she would have bled out regardless. As far as the bruising to her face, it's typical of a beating. I don't think I have to tell you what is broken, but here is something you'll find interesting –the bruise on her chin is postmortem."  
  
"So he beats her into submission, repeatedly stabs her, and then he punches her in the face again. This is not helping me, Doc."  
  
"And of course there are the long marks on her legs," he says dropping the sheet back over her torso and raising it at the bottom. "Some are older than others, suggesting abuse over a sustained period of time. The marks are uneven in nature and thin out at the end. They are consistent with the markings made by a whip."  
  
I nod as he drops the sheet. "She was also raped, several times, but there was no semen in the vaginal vault. Judging by the damage already done, she was on the verge of rupturing the next time he went after her."  
  
_No_.

_No_.

_No_.  
  
"And I thought you should also know she had virtually nothing in her stomach."  
  
"She died hungry?"  
  
He nods and looks at me with sadness in his eyes. It was at that precise moment, I realized I couldn't do what he does. He only gets the dark, grim side of things. He doesn't see us catch the one responsible; he only sees one dead body after the next. Not all are murdered but I couldn't be surrounded by death for twelve hours a day.  
  
I sigh. "Okay, is that all?"  
  
"On my end of things, yes it is," he says turning away. "I'm sure you want to take a mold of the stab wounds, so I'll let you work."  
  
"Thanks."  
  
Once he disappears into the office, I feel a sudden surge of panic course through me. The silence just hits me I guess. I keep thinking I'll just blink out of existence, the case will never be solved, and I'll be all alone. My eyes close to shut out the thought.  
  
No, I say to myself, I can get through it. I can do this, just like I got through the last one.


	4. Chapter 3

**

* * *

**

Chapter Three  
_6 Months Later  
Sara_

* * *

This year has been one step after another in the wrong direction for all the wrong reasons. I've had bad days, a bad few weeks, but an entire year? I don't even know where things went wrong. The exact point cannot be readily calculated because of the thick haze surrounding the major cause, which is: Grissom.  
  
It feels like he started the avalanche inside me and everything else is just snowfall adding more weight so no one can ever find me. It starts with a period of silence, and then it becomes a definite push. The difference was insignificant at first, but before I knew it Grissom had me at arm's length, then ten feet away, then yards away followed by that aching mile after mile.  
  
'Have dinner with me.' He might as well have laughed at me, perhaps then I could have passed it off as a joke between old friends because I had a more than trying day. No, I got a better idea. Why don't you embarrass me in front of everyone by reminding me that you are the supervisor and I'm to do whatever you say? Then I can ask you to pin me to the wall so I can make an utter fool of myself once again!  
  
In the end, it becomes dead weight compressing my chest.  
  
I've considered putting in a resignation again, if that is any indication how badly things have become. If it wasn't for my stubbornness and the promotion I put in, I may have been out of here by now. I don't know. Maybe I can't really bring myself to leave, and just say that to convince myself that I'm not standing still. It's becoming unlikely I'll get the promotion so what will be my excuse then? Let's make a full circle and say it is because of Grissom.  
  
I sigh as my eyes skim across the landscape zipping by. It has always been about Grissom.  
  
"Our last case was pretty rough, huh?"  
  
When I turn my head, Warrick looks back at the road.  
  
"I mean, that girl claiming to be the victim when she was really the key link in the chain."  
  
I nod, but wish I wasn't reminded of that brat. The whole case had me locked up in that familiar empathy and I was lied to. So many women can't come forward. Either because they don't think anyone will believe them or they are too terrified to realize that what happened wasn't their fault. And because of someone like her, it adds less credibility each and every time to the honest victim's story. It angers me so much. I'm not the kind of person that gets angry; I tend to just be greatly disappointed with others and myself. But when that snot played me like that, when she treated the whole situation as a joke, I really felt my frustration come to the surface. I kept thinking: a girl died a few months ago when she couldn't bring herself to face her rapist, and then this...how could anyone...why would you want to say such a violation occurred, when you'd been spared the torment? It's a mockery to the real victims. It's horrible.  
  
Do you know what's really sad? I wish I was more confident in my warning to make sure she was tried as an adult. She'll probably get off with a slap on the wrist and nothing I can say will change it. I'll try my hardest, but I have little faith.  
  
You just got to press on. When the next victim comes up, you start the trusting all over again until the evidence says otherwise, or catch the bastard that could do such a thing.  
  
"So, what's the story with our dead body?" I ask, pushing the thoughts to the back of my mind. I'm safe when they are there.  
  
"Are you going to tell me why you were late?"  
  
"I cut my hand on my locker door," I say nonchalantly.  
  
"What? Really?"  
  
I hold up my hand to show him where a piece of metal sliced the skin wide open from the bottom of my index finger to the middle of my palm. It's not too deep but it bled pretty badly. I got the bleeding to stop as quickly as I could but by the time I got to the lounge everyone was gone but Warrick, who I was paired with tonight. I bet Grissom wasn't too happy, but I can wager he wouldn't care if I was bleeding to death.  
  
"You should have bandaged it."  
  
"With what? Toilet paper?"  
  
He turns back to the road. "When we get there you can use the first aid kit in the back of the car."  
  
I nod. "So are you going to tell me about our case now?"  
  
"Stabbed female found in a rest area's men's restroom."  
  
"I love bathrooms. They leave excellent prints."  
  
He looks over at me and smiles. "I know, and I brought some new toys."  
  
"Really?" I turn around in my seat and try to see some of the equipment in the dim light. "What did you get?"  
  
"You'll see," he says watching me out of the corner of his eye.****

:::::::::::::::::::::::::

By the time we arrive at the scene, I've put Grissom virtually out of my mind. I've discovered that I can block a lot out when I'm concentrated on other things, which for me is work. We may pass each other in the halls and see each other occasionally, but he's intent on dismissing my presence so I've fallen more into the job. After all, work is what brought us closer from the start. It is all I have right now, and it will have to suffice until...I guess until he takes that away too. I wrap my hand in gauze and we set off towards a young officer, one I haven't met, who is waving us over.  
  
"It took you guys long enough," he says, rubbing his chilled hands together. "We identified the girl as Mary Thompson, thirty-one years of age, and a Las Vegas resident."  
  
"How did you ID her?" Warrick asks.  
  
"Her license, how else would we know who she is? She didn't open her eyes and tell us."  
  
Warrick exchanges an exasperated look with me, and then turns back to the officer. "Show us where the body is."  
  
"Right back here."  
  
We follow him to the side of the building with our field kits in hand and flashlights poised like weapons against the darkness. The walkway to the men's restroom has a solid concrete wall facing the parking lot for privacy, but the trapped cold night air makes me shiver to combat the temperature change.  
  
"Last stall," the officer says pointing to the open door.  
  
Warrick nods. Inside, a stench of urine and old lemon cleaner invades my nostrils. I almost feel the urge to dowse the whole place with Clorox to kill the germs I'm walking through. No, better still, it should be set on fire and bulldozed to the ground. The look on Warrick's face tells me that he's thinking the exact same thing.  
  
Finally, we find the girl sitting on the floor of the last stall. Warrick immediately sets down his kit and pulls a pair of latex gloves on. I do the same.  
  
"This is going to be a long night," he says with a sigh. "Do you want pictures or the body?"  
  
"I'll take the photos," I say pulling out the small digital camera and getting to work.  
  
She is banged up pretty badly, and her right arm looks broken. Her navy sweater is cut in two halves revealing the knife wounds. I notice she isn't only stabbed; she's also cut like someone was enjoying himself. Her jeans are completely missing from the scene and...  
  
"No."  
  
"You got something?"  
  
All of Warrick's words run together and I can't move. I've seen this before. I know this crime scene. Her underwear is saturated with blood, her body is posed, and fresh whippings plague her legs. Oh no.  
  
A strong hand pulls at me. "You okay?"  
  
I look at him but I don't see him. "I've had this case before."  
  
"What?"  
  
"This case, it's just like one I had six months ago. Everything is the same," I say quickly as my mind continues to bring up images of the Jane Doe in the alleyway.  
  
"Are you sure?"  
  
I nod and it seems to break my trance. He glances over at the dead woman and back to me.  
  
"Let's get you outside." He begins to push me towards the door.  
  
I lean into him to push back. "No, I'm fine. We need to process the scene. This may be our chance to catch him."  
  
He looks at me, unbelieving and drops his hands to his sides. He casts another disapproving glance at the dead girl, but quietly returns to the victim's side to continue. My knees unlock with some effort, and I begin snapping the various shots of the scene again. We work continuously without speaking. I use the silence to let the inner workings of my mind kick into gear.  
  
I'll need to pull the Jane Doe file and go through it carefully. Maybe something will jump out since we have two cases to compare. Once Doc Robbins performs the autopsy, I can go to Grissom with official evidence that would support the same killer in both cases. I think there is plenty of evidence, but it's Grissom and he'll need evidence.  
  
Right now the only difference between the bodies is that this woman isn't a Jane Doe. What does that mean?  
  
I turn to Warrick. "Hey where did they find her license if she hasn't got any pants on?"  
  
He shrugs. "Go ask Detective Personality."  
  
I find Detective Vickman, that's his name, standing nearest the yellow tape laughing with some patrol officers. "Excuse me."  
  
"What can I do for you, sweetheart?"  
  
Did he just call me sweetheart? I roll my eyes. "Where did you find the victim's license?"  
  
He looks at the other officers then back to me. "In her purse."  
  
What is with this guy?  
  
"I need to know where you found the purse then."  
  
"In the parking lot."  
  
"Show me."  
  
He points. "Over there, under the second street lamp."  
  
I look over my shoulder. I muster a 'thank you' and start to walk that way. I pull my flashlight out of my pocket again, and comb the area as I walk. Most of it is litter and broken glass. I reach my destination but find nothing. I search three times, but apparently the purse was isolated. I wish Detective Vickman had the brain capacity to remember not to move evidence. It may have helped to have the evidence in its place. I admit defeat nonetheless. As I swing around, my flashlight picks up on something several feet away. When I reach it, I find that it's a license plate. That's...  
  
I jump when a hand grabs me from behind. Warrick stares at me fuming with anger.  
  
"What the hell are you doing?"  
  
I frown at him feeling my heart beat in my chest. "You're the one sneaking up on people."  
  
"Someone has just murdered a woman, possibly two, and you're going on a hike?" He spins around. "Hey, Detective Dumbass?! Yeah I'm talking to you! Do you mind telling me why you just violated protocol and let CSI Sidle wander off on her own?!"  
  
"Warrick, I'm okay," I say softly.  
  
His piercing eyes lock with mine. "Did you hear me walking up on you?"  
  
"No, but..."  
  
"Exactly," he says turning towards the officers again. "You just got on my shit list, asshole!"  
  
"It was my fault," I interrupt. "I shouldn't have wandered off."  
  
He doesn't listen. "It's your job to protect the CSI's! Where in the hell were you just now?!"  
  
"Warrick would you stop. You're making a big deal about nothin'."  
  
He turns around just in time to miss the officers giving him the very popular hand gesture.  
  
"Too many times, we've been attacked while officers..."  
  
"Just drop it," I say sharply. "It's my fault, okay? I'm sorry. Can we just drop it?"  
  
Warrick's jaw clenches and releases. "What did you find?"  
  
I hold up the license plate. "It may have come from our killers car."  
  
"Or any other stolen car in Vegas."  
  
"I guess we will have to run it." I try to push past him but he grabs my elbow.  
  
"Sara, I'm sorry," he says quietly. "But you could have gotten hurt."  
  
"It won't happen," I say touching his hand.  
  
"At the risk of sounding a lot like Nick, I couldn't handle you getting hurt on my watch. I think it has a lot to do with irony."  
  
I cannot stop the chuckle. "What's wrong Brown, am I getting under your skin?"  
  
"Did anyone ever tell you can be such a pain?" He smiles at me, shaking his head.  
  
"Maybe." I tug his hand. "Let's get back and see what we have to get this case rolling again."


	5. Chapter 4

**Notes:** Because all that is happening recently with CSI, it's hard to write a story about the two characters I really love the most, especially when one of those characters may not be there for S5. I'm still hoping for the best. After all, in my opinion, it is the characters and the actors who portray them that pull this show together, and thus inspire me to write stories such as these. Take them away and it's just another cop show on primetime.  
  
Reviews are always welcome as long as they are constructive. If you don't like it, don't read it. Thanks to Marlou for tolerating me long enough to beta this. You're the best.

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Chapter Four  
_Grissom_

* * *

What a horribly long day. I didn't get much sleep last night because of this unusual dream. I fell asleep right away, which is rather typical after a case is solved, but I was quickly thrown into a dream.  
  
The dream was unsettling for a couple of reasons, and one of them was that I couldn't speak. My lips moved and I could hear what I wanted to say, but nothing ever came out. Then I was at work, except the corridors were completely empty. I had this feeling that I lost track of something very important. I had this aching need to find whatever it was as soon as possible.  
  
Suddenly, Sara is walking towards me. I remember a sense of relief wash over me. I call her name, but of course no sound emerges, and she continues to walk past me with her head down. I follow her, but despite my quickening pace she grows farther and farther away. I start to run. The sound of my feet is so loud echoing in the halls.  
  
A feeling of hopelessness and dread comes over me. I run until my legs and lungs force me to stop short of my destination. Down the hall, she is slowly entering the small dark archive room. I scream her name over and over and over. For just a tiny fraction of a second she looks up. Her eyes are so hollow- the light has gone out of them. I run to her as fast as I can. In the last fleeting steps, as my hand almost has a handle on her retreating figure, I wake up panting and dripping with perspiration.  
  
The dream was still weighing heavily on my mind when I handed out assignments a couple of hours later. To make matters worse, Sara wasn't even there. I asked everyone where she was but they just shrugged like they had no clue who I was talking about. Initially I was irritated, but on another level I was worried. I gave out assignments, pairing Warrick with Sara on a DB in a rest area bathroom, while Catherine and Nick pulled me away to our own crime scene.  
  
Now it is the end of shift and I still haven't seen or heard from her. I assume she did come to work or Warrick would have called me. I suppose I could have called her cell, but what would I have said? I have to keep in mind that things are not the same between us. Utter professionalism is the safest way to handle things now. Besides, it is much simpler to let things work out on its own and not dwell on it.  
  
There is a knock at my door breaking me out of my reverie. As usual, I welcome the interruption to put me back on track.  
  
"Come in."  
  
Warrick pushes through with Sara in tow. I wait for an explanation, but she doesn't say a word as if I permit such tardiness.  
  
"You were late to assignments, Sara." My tone surprises me.  
  
She smiles ruefully. "I got distracted."  
  
Warrick glances over at her confused, and then back to me. "She cut her hand on her locker door."  
  
I search for the hand she has carefully hidden from view. "It's nothing, Grissom. I won't be late again."  
  
I am tempted to say 'as long as you're okay', but both Warrick's presence and my previous behavior stops me from doing so. "So what do you two need? Shift is over."  
  
Sara drops two files in front of me. "Do you remember the Jane Doe that was stabbed to death in an alleyway roughly six months ago?"  
  
I say nothing taking the files into my hands.  
  
"We have reason to believe there is another murder by the same man. Mary Thompson was found..."  
  
"Who's Mary Thompson?" I ask thumbing through the crème folders.  
  
"That's the girl found tonight in the rest area bathroom. Take a look at the autopsy notes. Doc says both are victims. They're almost identical."  
  
"It says here in the notes that the victims were posed?"  
  
"Yes, they were definitely on display." She taps a picture in front of me with her bandaged hand. I'm reminded of the term of endearment that slipped the last time she cut her hand. "Other clues are greatly lacking, indicating he is highly meticulous and extremely careful. Not to mention he seems to be increasingly enjoying it."  
  
"When did you two know these cases could be related?"  
  
"Sara recognized the crime scene almost immediately," Warrick says with a certain level of respect.  
  
"It was the missing pants and whip marks on the woman's legs," she adds quickly.  
  
"Well, what do you think we should do?" I ask, eyeing them both very skeptically.  
  
"I think Sara's on to something," Warrick says from behind her. "If our guy is still targeting other women, it wouldn't be a bad idea to work the cases as if they are related."  
  
"I don't like crying 'serial killer' if I don't have to."  
  
Sara sighs. "It is the same guy. I know it. All we have to do is find a common link."  
  
"You said the clues are lacking. How can you be so sure there is a link?"  
  
"How can you not be?"  
  
I raise an eyebrow in surprise, but nod in agreement. "Okay, go home and we'll attack this tomorrow, but not a word to anyone about having another serial murderer."  
  
Warrick nods in agreement and Sara reaches for the files. I pull them out of her reach. "Goodnight, Sara."  
  
"Goodnight, Grissom." She smiles despite the frustration I know is bubbling under her calm exterior.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::

"What are you still doing here?" Catherine asks making herself comfortable in one of my chairs. "You got here early, seemed distracted all day, but you're staying well after quitting time. And I know you're tired, since you look like hell. What's up?"  
  
"You're still here," I point out as I examine the file again. I really don't want the company.  
  
Since Sara and Warrick dropped this case in my lap, I haven't been able to put it down. There isn't much evidence for either case, other than the way the victims were treated. And six months apart is an extremely long time for a killer with the same motive. The cases are too familiar, however, to ignore. Frequently, I've been concerned Sara is burning out. Such a case like this would really put her through the wringer, which is more than I think she can handle right now.  
  
"Grissom?"  
  
I look up. "Sorry Catherine, Warrick and Sara may have another serial."  
  
"Really?" She sits up. "You sure?"  
  
"Two females found posed in less than positive atmospheres. They were beaten, raped, and then stabbed to death."  
  
"And that sounds like any other rape that has come through our doors. It doesn't mean they were all done by the same person."  
  
"Are you implying something?"  
  
She shrugs. "Serial killings are high profile cases. Maybe Sara is trying to link the killings to better her running for the promotion."  
  
"Better her running? I don't think so, Cath," I say looking at the files again. "There are inconsistencies, but Sara wouldn't dream up such a horrible thing. Besides, she's not the person to worry about promotion."  
  
"So you're giving it to her?"  
  
"I didn't say that."  
  
She holds up her hands. "Hey I'm just curious as to who you're going to pick. In fact, the whole lab is wondering who will be promoted to Lead CSI."  
  
I lean back in my chair pulling the folders onto my lap to signal the end of our conversation.  
  
"Night, Gil," she says rising from her chair and leaving me in peace.


	6. Chapter 5

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Chapter Five  
_Four Days Later  
Sara_

* * *

This case is really getting under my skin. The clues are simply nonexistent. Whoever this is, he's extremely careful. Nothing collected from the victims or the scene has been of any use. The moldings I took from the victims' stab wounds don't match, which means different knives were used. The license plate belongs to a car reported stolen by an elderly woman while she was grocery shopping. Brass has the description of the car out on the wire, but there still isn't a guarantee the guy that stole the car is the one we are chasing.  
  
I checked into the victims' pasts as far as three years, and still found nothing to warrant a fresh lead. There is no link at all. Nothing. Doe and Thompson don't even have similar appearances. Doe was very petite and a brunette that worked in a book store. Mary Thompson was my height, blond, and worked as a talent representative. Not to mention the time distance between the killings is widely spaced. Why? Is he evolving? Is part of his routine? So many questions. All dead ends.  
  
It just doesn't make sense.  
  
I sigh and close my eyes. What do I know? We have to be dealing with the same guy who lives in Las Vegas for at least the last six months. He also has to have access to these women for at least several days. It is obvious he raped them more than once. Typically, when your attacker is a stranger, an incident of rape occurs once. Repeated violations suggest the victim was in a reoccurring situation she couldn't escape. So is he kidnapping them and holding them until he gets bored? And when he does get bored, what happens next?  
  
"Hey, Sara." Nick flops down scaring me. "Sorry, didn't mean to scare ya. What are you working on?"  
  
"Just a case," I say, dropping my eyes back to the folder.  
  
"Is that the possible serial?"  
  
His tone is more probing than pure curiosity and I suppose it is because of a wonderful rumor that is currently floating around. Greg dutifully informed me yesterday that I'm only looking for a big case to prove myself to Grissom. (Is that why I sat here for countless minutes debating with myself?) It is all a bunch of nonsense, but as with all rumors, the lie is more interesting than the truth.  
  
Before I even try to answer Nick's question, the rest of the crew walk through the door.  
  
"Okay, we're all here," Catherine says with a sigh. "Grissom left me the assignments, so I guess he is already out on a call. Nicky you have a 419, Warrick you have the pleasure of my company, and Sara..." She searches the post-it note for my assignment, but her face says I'm nowhere on the paper. "Are you sure you work tonight?"  
  
"It's on the time sheet," I reply somewhat defensively by her suggestive attitude.  
  
She shrugs. "He must've forgotten. You know how Grissom can get when a case comes in."  
  
I give her a fake smile betraying how awkward this small conversation has made me feel.  
  
"Well, you can ride with one of us."  
  
"I'll hang around here."  
  
"Okay," she says with a shrug. "If we need a backup, we'll call."  
  
"Catch you later, Sara."  
  
They all leave and soon the peace and quiet warrants for perfect concentration, but I feel a new annoyance that wasn't previously there. For some time now I've felt like an outsider to most of the team, and I think this takes the cake.  
  
"Let's go."  
  
Grissom stands in the doorway in a pair of jeans and his field vest. He's wearing jeans?  
  
"Another girl was found at the quarry. Brass is waiting for us."  
  
I try to process what he is saying. "I thought you forgot I was working tonight."  
  
He screws up his brow in confusion. "How could I _forget_ you? I'll meet you outside."  
  
I watch him disappear, but cannot escape the impact of his words. 

::::::::::::::::::::::::

The scene is one I'm painfully familiar with: the only garments on her body are her shirt and panties, her face is beaten, her legs bearing his signature, and she is posed against a pile of stone.  
  
"This one makes three. Looks like Sara was right."  
  
I glance over at Brass to silently thank him for the support. No one else seems to notice I'm good at my job.  
  
"Her shirt is intact," I say, bringing my mind back to the scene. "The last two had their shirts ripped down the front to display the stab wounds."  
  
Grissom stands on the other side of the body. "What color were their shirts?"  
  
The question strikes me as odd, and when I look over to him, he's staring at me. I know the colors but is this a test to see how close emotionally attached I'm becoming? I can't afford to be pulled off this case.  
  
"I don't think he wanted to cut her shirt because of its color," he says quite simply.  
  
I look down at the body. I understand what he means. The only evidence that it was once white are the untouched sleeves on each side of the solid bloodstained shirt.  
  
"He liked the look of the blood as it was seeped from the wounds," I say sadly. "Thompson was wearing a navy blue sweater and Jane Doe was wearing a yellow blouse."  
  
"Yes, white is a good color," he says opening his kit.  
  
I set to work by first scraping her nails but have little belief she had the strength to fight back after the first blow to her face. Taking the photos are the hardest. You can imagine why. Afterwards I need a break.  
  
"Uh - I'm going to walk the perimeter. Maybe there is evidence of transport."  
  
"Take Brass with you," he answers without looking at me.  
  
I walk towards the yellow tape where Brass stands giving orders to a police cadet.  
  
"Hey Brass, do you feel like taking a walk?"  
  
He turns at the sound of my voice and wags his eyebrows. "It's a funny thing because I was just going to ask you that."  
  
I take my time combing through the dusty earth for any clues. Strangely, there are no tire tracks, footprints, or drag marks.  
  
"Sara." Brass's arm swings in front of me to act as a barrier.  
  
When I follow his stare I see a young man in jeans and a dark hooded sweatshirt twenty feet away sitting on a pile of crushed rock.  
  
"Do you have your gun?"  
  
"Yeah." I unclip my gun.  
  
"Get behind me," he whispers walking forward. "Sir, this is the Las Vegas Police! Put your hands where I can see them!"  
  
The man's eyes catch sight of us. His head cocks to the side. "Are you really the police?"  
  
"Yes, now put your hands where I can see them."  
  
He begins to stand up and my hands tighten on the grip.  
  
"You are late. You shouldn't be Late! Must be On Time!" He shouts despite the fact that we are in perfect hearing distance now.  
  
"Keep your hands where I can see them."  
  
"But I have to give this to you." He bends down to pick up a package that is sitting at his feet.  
  
"Sir, put the box down! Now!"  
  
"Piper said to give this to the police." The man acts confused. "The police are always On Time. Are you sure you are the police?"  
  
"Brass?" I whisper. "Who's Piper?"  
  
"His alter-ego? I don't know or care right now. Stay behind me."  
  
I swallow around the lump in my throat. "I don't think this is our guy, Jim."  
  
He never takes his eyes off of the man as he processes my words. "You said Piper wanted to give us something?"  
  
"Yeah!" The guy smiles at us. "He said you were friends."  
  
Slowly, I holster my weapon and step up beside Brass. "Do you know where we can find him?"  
  
"He went home, I guess."  
  
"Where's home?"  
  
He points to the distance. "The Mountain, of course."


	7. Chapter 6

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Chapter Six  
_Sara_

* * *

Benjamin Caruk is a boy trapped in a man's body. He is twenty-four years old but his brain never progressed beyond the mental capacity of an eight year old. He has no knowledge of who the real Piper is, but has perfect knowledge of who he thinks Piper is.  
  
"Tell us exactly what happened tonight, Ben," I say clasping my hands in front of me. "Tell me how you met Piper."  
  
"I was eating with my best friend Tom at the church." He keeps his eyes away from mine. "I had vegetable soup, three slices of bread, and chocolate milk. Do you like chocolate milk?"  
  
I can't believe I actually had my weapon ready to fire. "It's my favorite kind of milk."  
  
He finally looks up and smiles. "You're a lot nicer than that man. I didn't like his cuffs."  
  
"I'm sorry about that. But we weren't sure who you were," I reply. "A young woman was killed tonight, Ben. We need to know as much as we can about your friend Piper."  
  
"He's not really my friend," he says as he leans over the table. "Is he the real perp?"  
  
I smile at his innocence. "We just need to talk to him. So, if he wasn't your friend why did you get in his car?"  
  
"The bus comes every night at six o'clock," he says carefully. "That's why you cannot be Late; Always On Time."  
  
"You missed the bus."  
  
He sighs and puts his head down. "I didn't mean to. Do you have to tell Mrs. Ellis about this? If she finds out she'll take away my Independence. Mrs. Ellis lets me ride the bus all by myself. I do other important chores at the House, too. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, I cook breakfast."  
  
"That is a lot of responsibility. She must trust you a great deal."  
  
"I am very Trust-Worthy," he says proudly.  
  
"Is that why Piper gave you that package? Because he knew you would get it to us right away?"  
  
"Yeah probably."  
  
I frown. "You've never met Piper before tonight?"  
  
"No." He looks down at his hands. "When can I go home?"  
  
"Soon," I say. "What did he say about the box?"  
  
"He told me not to look inside. It wasn't for me."  
  
"Can you remember what kind of car he drove?"  
  
"Big."  
  
"Was it a truck?"  
  
"No, a car. It was shaped like my shoe boxes."  
  
"Do you remember the color?"  
  
"Um..." He bites his lip and shakes his head. "It was getting dark."  
  
"It's okay," I say softly. "Was there a woman in the car when Piper picked you up?"  
  
He shakes his head. "Nope. Just me and him."  
  
"Okay, can I ask you just one more question?" He nods. "Why did you say Piper lives in the mountains?"  
  
"He told me."  
  
I let the words sink in but nothing seems to make sense. Like all this questioning only confused things. "Well, thank you for all your help. If you can think of anything else that might help us, tell Mrs. Ellis. We really need to talk to Piper."  
  
"Maybe I'll see him again and can tell him."  
  
"Leave that to us, okay?"  
  
"Okay."  
  
The officer begins to lead him outside to his guardian when he suddenly stops at the doorway. "Sara, if you are looking for Piper, maybe you should call him. I'm sure he has a telephone."  
  
I grin. "I'll give it some thought."  
  
He departs with a satisfactory grin just as Grissom walks in. "Sounds like Piper is the one we want to question," he says.  
  
"Yeah, if we can find him and his mountain in the Yellow Pages then the case is solved," I reply with defeat. "Our killer just doesn't seem like someone who would be overly nice to someone like Ben."  
  
"Does your picture of the killer not fit that of our witness's?"  
  
I say nothing. Maybe I painted this awful picture of a monster that beats, rapes, and murders women when in reality he is still a man like so many other, except for being capable of those atrocious acts. And isn't that always the case? No one can pick out a monster from a crowd of men if he too wears a mask.  
  
"I agree that something isn't right though."  
  
I look up at him.  
  
"Why would he get into the car of a man he didn't know?"  
  
"He missed his only ride home. He was afraid he'd get in trouble."  
  
"Would you get into a car if you were stranded along the highway?"  
  
"I'm an adult. I know what people are capable of, Grissom."  
  
His eyes meet mine and for a minute it feels like he can see through me. Brass saunters in to break up our standoff.  
  
"I sent Ben to our artist. Maybe we can get a good sketch of Piper."  
  
"Good idea," Grissom says.  
  
"What's on your docket for the rest of the night?"  
  
"We saved the best for last," he replies, sweeping out the door.  
  
Brass turns to me. "Ah, the package. Let me know how that goes."  
  
I nod and drag myself after Grissom. 

**::::::::::::::::::::::::**

While we were interviewing our witness, Greg was processing the outside of the mysterious present.  
  
"No prints other than your delivery boy's. The tape is standard packaging tape. The box is also very standard -cardboard. Total processing time took all of ten minutes, and it was a waste of my expertise." He nods. "Thought you should know."  
  
"You have to start somewhere, Greg," Grissom replies, putting on a pair of latex gloves.  
  
I give Greg a pity glance as Grissom examines the box. It seems to take all my strength to keep from swaying with exhaustion as precious time ticks away.  
  
"Shall we break this baby open or are we going to stare at it all day?"  
  
Grissom straightens his shoulders. "Box cutter."  
  
He's handed the cutter and the opening begins. As soon as the small package is open, three eager pairs of eyes peer inside.  
  
There's nothing.  
  
Not a damn thing.  
  
"You sure this is the right one?"  
  
"Yes," Grissom snaps at him.  
  
"What are you guys looking at?" Catherine suddenly leans in between Grissom and Greg's shoulder. "Ah, nothing. Figures."  
  
Grissom nods thoughtfully. "Of course. We have nothing."  
  
I exchange a second glance with my co-workers. Then it clicks with an annoying sound. We have nothing and our killer knows it. He even sent us an eyewitness and there is still nothing to push us in the direction he is hiding.  
  
Feeling quite removed from myself, I snap my gloves off. "I'll be with the body."  
  
No one says a word as I exit the DNA lab and head for the morgue.  
  
"I think you know what I'm writing in the autopsy report," Doc says turning away from me as I step through the swinging double doors.  
  
"She told us absolutely nothing?" I ask him.  
  
"Sometimes, nothing really is nothing."  
  
The sentence strikes an already tender nerve. I can't believe it's gotten to him too. There is something we are missing and I'm determined to find it.  
  
"Did you get an I.D. off her prints?"  
  
"Yes. Detective Brass just faxed me the woman's driver's license."  
  
I take the paper. "Trisha Morgan, 37, 366 Dale Drive. Does she have family in the area?"  
  
"One of her sisters is coming in later."  
  
I make a mental note to speak with her to find out what kind of person she was and her previous whereabouts before she died. It's a short but trying task. A loud sigh I didn't know I had in me exits from my mouth.  
  
"Is everything all right?"  
  
"Huh? Oh, tired, I guess."  
  
"I know a good remedy for insomnia," he begins. "It involves a pinch of wintergreen, a jot of olive oil, and a dash of sugar in a warm cup of green tea."  
  
I grimace and swallow hard. My stomach squirms demanding anything except that concoction.  
  
"Or I could just recommend a good sleeping drug when that doesn't work."  
  
I force a smile. "It doesn't sound like you put much faith into your potion either."  
  
He grins madly at me.  
  
"I never knew you were even dabbling in home remedies," I say with a frown.  
  
"I received a new book on the subject and haven't been able to put it down," he explains. "Unfortunately, David isn't all too eager to serve as the guinea pig."  
  
"I wonder why," I say, allowing a small wry smile to grace my lips. "Have a good night, Doc."  
  
He nods. "If you change your mind for either antidote I'll be around."  
  
Outside the morgue, I wander down the hallway with no expedience. I really didn't sleep well last night, just a few hours at the most. In fact, I haven't had a shift end when I didn't feel obligated to spend my off hours reworking all angles of this case. It hasn't shone any new light on things but I can't help it. Like I can't help thinking about my current standings with Grissom every night. One makes the other harder and the day seem longer. Both make me restless.  
  
A hand lands on my shoulder.  
  
I throw my arm up and turn. "David! Don't do that!"  
  
"Sorry." He blushes. "I just wanted to give you something before you left." He hands me a tiny piece of torn transparent plastic now stained pink with blood.  
  
"Where did you find it?"  
  
"I pulled it from one of the dead girl's knife wounds when I was preparing her for autopsy," he says.  
  
"It was actually inside the wound?" I flip the evidence bag over in my hand.  
  
"Yes. I thought it was debris at first." He pushes his glasses further up his nose. "What do you think it means?"  
  
"I don't know," I reply. "But at least it's something."


	8. Chapter 7

**Notes: **Thank you to everyone reading and reviewing. Please keep it up!

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**Chapter Seven**  
_Sara_

* * *

Well into a double shift exhaustion no longer has its hands on me. The bloody plastic pulled from Trisha Morgan's knife wound got me thinking that maybe I need to consider scenarios outside the box. We know that these women are killed on site because of the large amount of blood present around the body. However, there has been no blood spatter typical of a brutal stabbing found anywhere around the body. It never bothered me before. But when Grissom said there was a great lack of evidence for such a passionate crime, I knew we were missing a big piece of the puzzle.

How do you contain evidence? Well, you can't really contain it. There will always be a clue, even if it is evidence of a cleanup. But you can give it its own environment in order to control it.

He's wrapping the bodies for transport, to minimize transfer from his vehicle. And if he is as smart as I'm starting to think he is, he's also doing it to keep the scene from incriminating him. It explains why the bodies are clean. I've never had a body that didn't have some primary or secondary transfer evidence in some form or the other.

So he beats her, binds her... no. She had no ligature marks on her wrists. She's already weak from the abuse though. It wouldn't be difficult to knock her unconscious for easy disposal. He wraps her body and drives her to the scouted area. He'd want her awake to kill her. He peels her out of the plastic but leaves it underneath her as he kills her. After it's done the tarp is completely removed. She's put on display to his liking and he disappears with the plastic and all the evidence of transfer from him to her. It's perfect. And smart. I may not have thought otherwise for the entirety of the case.

So how did the plastic get in a knife wound?

I haven't figured that one out yet. It's there, but I'll need a new perspective to find it.

"Sara."

I stop in mid-stride to turn around. "Warrick, what's up?"

"Not much. You wouldn't know what Permethrin is used in, would you?"

"It's used in outdoor insect repellants. Um, it's pretty strong stuff. You're not even supposed to spray it on your skin. It's for your hiking gear and clothes."

"How do you know so much about bug killer?"

"I don't know," I smile.

He points down at the items in my hands. "Find something to break your case?"

"You might say that." I hold up the evidence bag. "David pulled this from the last victim's knife wound."

He takes it from me. "Plastic?"

"I'm thinking he's wrapping the bodies to contain evidence."

"That's giving him a lot of credit. Why mess with it? Just kill her and get out."

"It's about more than that," I say taking the bag back. "I just haven't figured out how it got in the wound tract."

"He could be killing them through the plastic."

I shake my head. "No. Murder is too intimate for this guy. He doesn't want the barrier, you know what I mean?"

"Then go to the fallback position. They aren't made of wood," he replies. "If that girl had any life left in her to protect herself, she tried."

"Automatic response to danger is to run," I argue.

"But when you can't run..."

"Shield yourself." The light goes on. "She grabbed the only thing that was in reach -the plastic she was laying on."

The scene plays out in my head. The first blows to her chest. There's shock. She claws for something to grab onto. Anything -a heavy rock to defend herself, or perhaps a lead pipe. Her hands come up empty. The shock turns to pain with the repeated assaults. She clutches onto the plastic she wasn't meant to die on. In a fleeting attempt she pulls it to her chest, perhaps to stop the bleeding or in one last effort to protect herself, like a child's blanket when the monsters in the closet go bump in the night. Regardless the knife descends, puncturing the plastic and her chest for the final time.

His pager goes off waking me from the horrific daydream. "It's Cath. She's got the DNA results back." He looks up. "Hey, thanks."

"Yeah, sure."

I continue along the corridor thinking about the last moments of Trisha Morgan's life and how alone she must have been.

Grissom's rough voice finds my ears even though he isn't talking to me. I look up and see him breaking away from Greg at the other end of the hall. I continue walking in the direction he is currently coming from. We meet somewhere in the middle but no words are exchanged. Our gazes pass each other but that is all.

Stubbornly, I keep up my pace. When I reach the lounge, however, I release a heavy sigh and with it all my bullheaded stamina. The room is empty. Not a soul to talk to or sit with. I realize I don't want to be here anymore and exit the way I came.

**::::::::::::::::::::::::**

The day is warmer than the last few have been but I still require my light jacket as I comb the crime scene for any other signs of plastic. There are none. I really didn't think I'd be that lucky but it was worth a try. My feet take me farther away from the yellow tape and the red stain on the ground. Since I'm given the bright daylight that I didn't have last night, I decide another perimeter is the next best course of action.

Maybe I'm just killing time.

The terrain is stony and doesn't permit good tracks or shoe prints. In the dark, it looked sandy though. The dark can disguise a lot of things. Ben Caruk even looked menacing in the night. Nonetheless, the well lit earth turns up no helpful hints for my efforts.

I look to the horizon where the sun is melting behind a great white cloud. My eyes close with the overexposed image imprinted on my mind. After a moment I open my eyes to fresh scenery. The Vegas neighborhood on the other side of the quarry comes into focus. I glance over my shoulder to the lone stretch of highway so drastic in comparison to the city. This is probably the way he came in. It's opposite the neighborhood so it's easy drop off and getaway without being seen. He probably carried the body over his shoulder from the car, which was parked along the road.

Does he kill and dump her before or after he picks up his decoy?

My phone rings at my side. It's Grissom.

"Yeah."

"I heard about your plastic."

"Yeah." I quickly give a short report of all my findings. He surprisingly doesn't even question my new theory.

"I want to talk to the delivery boy," is his only reply. "I'll meet you there."

**::::::::::::::::::::::::**

I hop down from the truck, slamming the door. Grissom ambles up the sidewalk. "Where were you?"

"Revisiting the crime scene," I answer, taking my sunglasses off. "Can I ask why we need to talk to Ben again?"

"I'm ruling him out as an accessory."

"Do you really think he knew there was a dead body a few hundred yards away?"

"Actually, no I don't but we need to be sure. Shall we?"

My lips remain sealed as I follow him up the steps leading to a large porch. He lightly knocks on the door. Mrs. Ellis, the nice black woman I talked to on the phone, greets us with a smile.

"Miss Sidle. Mr. Grissom. How can I help you folks?"

"We were hoping we could talk to Ben again. It should only take a moment."

"Sure, come right in," she says jovially. "Can I get you some tea?"

"No, I'm fine," Grissom answers as he scans the large hallway.

"Mrs. Sidle?"

"No," I reply stepping up beside him. "This is a big house. How many adults do you look after?"

"Ten, but I have my share of help." She leads us to the large kitchen. "Those that aren't eligible for work are taught simple housekeeping. And of course, I have four assistants from the agency to help out. We get along."

I smile.

"Honey, you look ragged. Let me get you some tea. Sit down."

Automatically, I enforce an old habit with Grissom by exchanging a glance. For a second I see something familiar in his eyes, but he speedily takes a seat in one of the many chairs and I dismiss it as quickly as it came.

"I'm sorry Ben had to go through the ordeal of being a suspect," he says.

"Are you kidding? He wouldn't stop talking about it. Actually, he wanted to ask you if he could shadow some of your police friends."

"I'm sure it can be arranged."

"Here." She hands me the cup of tea as I take my seat. "I'll get Ben."

I let the cup warm my hand as I sip it. It's good. Very good.

"Hi, Sara," Ben announces stepping into the kitchen.

I smile. "Hey, Ben. You remember Grissom."

"Hi." He nods and turns back to me. "Mrs. Ellis said you wanted to ask me some questions. I don't remember anything new."

"I just wanted to make sure we got everything," Grissom says. "You said you didn't know what was in the box?"

"No," he says taking a seat across from us.

Grissom frowns. "Are you a fan of Christmas?"

"Yeah," he says cautiously.

I watch Grissom smile. "So am I. Guessing what could be in the presents was my favorite part."

"Hey, yeah, me too." His face loses its defensiveness.

"Sometimes I would even peel back the tape to see what was inside," Grissom continues. "But you know it was never what I expected it to be. Always something I never guessed or never wanted."

Ben smiles. "I want videogames but usually it's just clothes. They are nice but not as fun as games."

He nods. "I don't think anything can keep me from being curious. So Ben, you know I'd understand if you looked in the box. It doesn't matter to me."

Ben lowers his eyes. "There wasn't anything inside."

Grissom folds his hands. "If I found that out I wouldn't stay with a package some stranger left me alone with, especially if he gave me no reward."

There is a guilty pause. "He gave me a hundred dollars."

Mrs. Ellis opens her mouth but Grissom silences it with a finger. "Is that why you got in the car?"

"Yes. I didn't think it would hurt. It was just a box."

"Lord, I knew you boys weren't snickering over a cop story. It was that money," Mrs. Ellis snaps.

"It's okay. Ben didn't do anything I wouldn't have done." Grissom looks across at Ben. "He trusted Piper. There's nothing wrong with that. Did you two talk a lot?"

"He really didn't want to talk much. I talk all the time," he says with a roll of his eyes. "Piper was nice about it though. He didn't tell me to shut up once. Sometimes people are mean. I thought that's why he stopped his car. To laugh at me for missing my bus. But he only wanted directions to the pharmacy. I told him, three lights down. Then he asked if I wanted to make a hundred dollars! Do you know how many Playstation games I could buy?" He nods his head enthusiastically. "Tom would say Christmas came twice this year."

I stare blankly at the young man that left out all of that from his original statement. Silently, I kick myself for my reluctance to question him again. I should have known.

"Can you remember anything else about Piper?" Grissom asks.

"Not really," he shrugs and looks over at me. "Did you call him?"

"Can't find his number," I say with a shrug.

"I should have asked. You would like him."

I grin uncomfortably.

"What you should have done, Benjamin Lawrence Caruk, was tell these officers the truth the first time 'round," Mrs. Ellis says in a strong voice.

His head drops between his shoulders. Grissom swiftly comes to the boy's rescue. "That's all right. No harm done."

"Can I go up to my room now?"

There's a brief pause from Mrs. Ellis when we nod the okay. He says goodbye and walks hurriedly out of the kitchen. I thank Mrs. Ellis for the tea as she shows us the door.

"Oh, you're welcome. I'm just sorry Ben didn't tell the whole truth the first time," she says standing in the doorway. "I thought he knew better."

"We know now and that is all that matters," Grissom replies. "Thank you for your time."

"Have a good day," I say with a polite smile.

"You too." She closes the door.

"Well, we know why he got in the car," Grissom says descending down the front steps.

"How did you know he looked inside?"

"You," he replies, keeping his eyes straight ahead. "Ben doesn't see the world the way we do even if he looks like an adult. You said so yourself."

"But it still doesn't explain why Piper drove almost seven miles into the city to pick him up. Any guy in between would have done it for less than a hundred."

He turns around. "Ben is as innocent as they come. Perhaps Piper was mocking us for arresting the wrong man."

He pulls his sunglasses on. "Can we trace the plastic you pulled from Morgan?"

"Hodges wasn't able to narrow it down further than regular plastic wrap sold in every hardware store," I reply looking out across the street. "So do you think the packages will continue?"

He nods. "Next time, I'm afraid something will be inside."


End file.
